The Haunted Present
by DeniseV
Summary: Harm comes to one of the team as they investigate a possible sighting of the fugitive John Buckley.


"Don, there's been a sighting of Buckley," F.B.I. Agent David Sinclair said as he rushed into the room and handed the note to his boss, Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes. Don read what he'd been given and then shook his head.

"No, it's a mistake. He wouldn't come back here. Not this soon."

"But Don. . ."

"He had hundreds of thousands of dollars to live on, David. Why would he be back here just four months later?"

"I don't know, but this description. . .it's him, even down to the attitude," Sinclair insisted.

"Well, I think it's a waste of time. Even John Buckley wouldn't have been able to spend that much money so fast."

"Maybe he's not back for the money."

"Maybe," Eppes conceded, annoyed at the mere mention of Buckley's name, let alone the possibility that he might be back in his jurisdiction. "Go check it out. Take Colby." Sinclair acknowledged the order silently as he headed to his partner's desk.

"We're heading out," he said as he reached the cubicle where Agent Colby Granger sat hunched over a computer monitor.

"Where're we goin'?" Colby asked as he grabbed his keys, cell phone and his suit jacket.

"I'll tell you on the way." Sinclair watched as Granger took the last important piece of equipment from his desk drawer: his gun.

Once they were in the elevator, David told his friend, "Buckley's back."

"You're kidding."

"Yeah, that's what Don said. There was a sighting at a house on Valley Street in Pasadena."

"Nice neighborhood. That's not far from Charlie's," Colby noted.

"I know. Hopefully it's unrelated. Don's sure it can't be him."

"It doesn't make much sense for him to come back."

"Predictable isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind with John Buckley," Sinclair commented as the elevator's doors opened onto the parking garage.

"I wasn't here for his last job, but didn't you say he was skittish about going back to prison? I mean, he went to a lot of trouble to get out of the country. And he's a wanted felon, a fugitive from justice. He has to know that it won't go well for him if he gets caught," Colby explained as he used the remote to unlock the company issue's doors. Both men got in the car and Granger was quickly driving on the freeway north toward Pasadena. "He's a quirky guy, but I don't think he's _that_ quirky."

"He's not just quirky. I think he might be a little unstable. There's really no telling what people like that might do," David mused.

"Yeah, well, I hope it's not him. He has a way of putting Don off his feed."

David smirked at the choice of words. "He sure pushes Don's buttons."

"If I remember correctly, you had some praise for the guy," Colby joked with his friend.

"Only because of his ability to play all of us. That's why it would be sweet revenge if it was him."

"Was he alone? This is pretty sparse info," Granger said as he pointed at the note that Sinclair kept re-reading.

"Nah," David said, annoyance in his tone. "I was tempted to not bother giving Don the information, it was so vague."

"But you figured even bad information is worth it if you can get Buckley?" His partner didn't answer. "I guess we'll have to be ready for anything, considering what happened last time."

"I'd rather that he not get away again, if that's what you're gettin' at," Sinclair replied testily.

Granger looked toward his friend as he made the turn onto Colorado Boulevard. "I didn't mean anything other than we should be extra careful because of the gunfire last time." David stared straight ahead. Colby watched his partner in between watching the road, catching enough glances to know that Sinclair was tense and unhappy about something; whether it was something Granger had said, or something David had surmised, Colby was still trying to piece together. There was one thing Colby Granger knew for certain and that was that his friend was not responsible for the bad outcome the last time the F.B.I. had mixed it up with Buckley, despite all current evidence that seemed to convince David Sinclair that he was.

"Look," Granger said as he turned onto South Pasadena Avenue, the road that would lead to the street they sought. "I wasn't on the case, but I read the reports. You did everything that you could. You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

Sinclair shook his head back and forth. "No," he said, sounding to Granger like he was preparing to disagree. He continued, "I think tactically, based on procedures, I did everything by the book. But I. . ." he paused, re-thinking his phraseology, "_we_ didn't take into account enough just how clever he is." Colby noted the change in pronoun, which pleased him, seeing that at least if there was fault, David recognized that it wasn't all his.

"It wasn't all about him," Colby said. "And when it was, he fooled everyone." He paused and then added for emphasis, "Everyone." He looked to his right to make sure that David was listening.

"No, it wasn't and yes, he did." Sinclair shook his head again. He pointed to the left. "Here's our street, Valley. The house should be about halfway down this first block, on the left. Green bungalow, burgundy trim. Porch."

"I read it," Colby said as he kept an eye open for a place to park, making sure they parked a few houses short of their target. He found a spot that he liked behind a carpet installer's van and pulled the car over. Both agents exited the vehicle and headed across the street for the front door, as though on a routine visit for questioning. There was no expectation of violence. . .it wasn't part of Buckley's modus operandi. But Buckley had partnered with violent men the last time. Sinclair and Granger were as careful as they could be keeping this as straightforward as possible. Colby rang the doorbell.

"If he recognizes us, he'll run," David said.

"If it's him," Colby agreed. He knocked this time and yelled, "F.B.I., open up!" Neither agent could see through to the inside of the house: all blinds and curtains had been pulled.

"Wish we had a warrant," David said. Colby looked at him quizzically. "I don't want him getting away. We have to do this by the book."

"Okay, but. . ." Granger touched the doorknob and turned it. "Huh, that's suspicious," he added.

"Feels like a set-up," Sinclair agreed.

"Could just be bad workmanship." The nice mission-style house had seen better days and been compromised in any number of aesthetic ways, not the least of which was the cheap door that also compromised the safety and security of the building. The fine oak door that once adorned the entry and were mainstays of such houses at the turn of the last century, and still opened grandly for the more lovingly cared for mission and prairie-style homes like the Eppes', was almost certainly sold by an owner with dollar signs in their eyes, someone who woefully lacked vision. This house, with its warped door that failed to latch, had Colby and David in the living room in just seconds.

Sinclair headed left once they entered and checked the dining room and any other rooms on the left side of the house. Colby headed straight ahead for the kitchen. They met again in the living room after calling all of the downstairs clear. They did the same careful check upstairs but found the three bedrooms and one bath clear.

"Someone's definitely living here," Granger offered. "Fresh groceries in the fridge."

"That half bath behind the downstairs bedroom smells of toothpaste."

"You think whoever was here just left?" Colby asked.

"I don't know. Let's check the back yard." Granger followed Sinclair out the back door. The yard, though small, was lush and private. The two F.B.I. agents could see little evidence of the houses right next door: a perfect scenario for hiding out. A small garden shed yielded only the expected gardening implements. As they'd only had a description of the house, and not a number, they had been unable to check who the owners were, but it was pretty clear that if Buckley was here, he seemed to be homesteading.

As the two met up again approaching the back steps of the house, David turned to tell his friend that they appeared to be wasting their time. Before he could get a word out, he caught movement just beyond his partner. "Colby!" he yelled, just before the rim of the metal trash can lid caught Granger on the side of his head, above his left ear. The agent folded to the ground. David couldn't tell if Colby was down from the pain and shock, or if he was actually unconscious. He ran after the person who downed his best friend. Though the coloring and the hair looked like Buckley from the rear, the height and the build was off. Too tall, too broad, and unfortunately, a good runner. As the guy continued to accelerate and increase the distance between them, Sinclair made a decision that the welfare of his partner trumped catching the guy, especially a guy who was not actually the person they were looking for. David would have loved to catch this perp, and he suspected they had been drawn to this house with a Buckley look-a-like. What the reason for that might be would have to be dealt with another time. It was far more important that David get back to Colby. He stopped at the car to call for back-up and an ambulance, and then ran back around to the rear of the home where he found Granger still flat on the ground.

"Colby," he said as he put his hand first on his friend's chest, and then quickly to his throat to check his carotid for a pulse. Maybe not conscious, but definitely alive. The overwhelming relief that he felt was momentary, however, as Colby remained so still on the ground. "Hey, partner," he tried again as he took a close look at where Granger had been hit. There was a lot of blood and it flowed frighteningly freely. Sinclair pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the blood away, but more oozed out far too fast. The cut was deep; Colby seemed to grow more pale by the second.

"Come on, where's that ambulance?" David asked. He raised his head and listened carefully for sirens. He sighed with relief when he heard them. He kept a steady pressure on the gouge now, hoping to staunch the bleeding. "Okay, partner, it's time to come around," he said as he watched his friend remain still and quiet. "You're starting to scare me here." A moan, and faint movement brought unbearable relief to the solidly built black man who sat carefully tending the man who was like a brother to him. They were back together now, in synch, solid as ever. 'If he lost Colby now. . .' he thought, after all of that terrible time after the Chinese affair, after working so hard to nourish their friendship, after their lives had been enriched once more by commitment to their country, by friendship, by brotherhood…

"Good boy," Sinclair encouraged. He found now that Granger was trying to move too much too soon, as though he was trying to get up, but what he saw scared him: Colby, without coordination, hampered by a blow to the head so hard that David feared far worse things to come.

"Take it easy. Don't move," David ordered. Colby was blinking his eyes now, but not keeping them open. He groaned and tried to raise his hand to his head, but it plopped down halfway up, landing in Sinclair's lap. David grasped the hand and leaned in close. "It's okay. Take it easy."

"D. . .Dav'd?" Colby asked.

"Yeah, it's me. Stay still," Sinclair added as Granger tried vainly to move once more.

"Wha' happ'n'd," Colby asked. A look of extreme pain came over him, he grimaced, and then added, "H. . .Hurts. Dizzy."

"I know. Someone knocked you hard on the head."

"Buckley?" Granger asked. More relief from Sinclair as his partner remembered what they'd been doing.

"No, someone else." David chose to leave the details for later.

"Not him." Granger sighed, as did Sinclair, at their shared lack of success in capturing their quarry, and in this far less than positive result of this particular foray to Pasadena. The net result of visiting Pasadena had always been a gold mine for them in the past, considering who lived there. "Wha'd I get hit with?" Colby slurred as he tried to raise his hand to his head once more. David held on, told him to leave it alone, but the weakness in the action was evidence to the senior agent that his friend wouldn't have made it very far.

"It was an aluminum trash can lid."

"Feels like. . .it mighta. . .been a. . .sledgehamm'r."

"I'll bet it does," David agreed sympathetically. He was encouraged that Colby seemed able to carry on a conversation after such a serious hit to the head. It should have been comforting, but worry still pushed its way to the fore.

The distant sirens were now loudly surrounding them. Colby grimaced again with pain. His world narrowed to one thing: dealing with the pain, only the pain. Talking had become unappealing, only bringing on more pain. The sirens, as they neared, didn't help, but the sirens quickly cut off with just the swirling lights of law enforcement and emergency vehicles remaining.

"David, what happened?" Don Eppes asked as he rushed in to the back yard. He kneeled down next to his friends.

"The place appeared empty. We got blindsided back here."

"Was it Buckley?"

"No, but someone wanted us to think that it was."

"Whaddya mean?" Don asked.

David looked at his partner. His eyes were slits, he was still conscious, but didn't appear to be paying too much attention now. It worried the F.B.I. man, but he needed to answer his boss' query.

"The guy resembled Buckley, but he was stockier, taller. That call, it was a set-up," David explained as he tried to look around the leader of the Violent Crimes Squad at the Los Angeles bureau of the F.B.I. He was relieved to see the ambulance personnel running up behind Don.

"Did he have any other weapon?" Eppes asked as he stood to make way for the emergency medical folks.

"No. . .I don't. . .I don't think. . .I don't know. I. . ." David was distracted from the conversation by EMTs guiding him out of the way. Don decided they could talk more about the specifics of the case later. Their perp was bound to be gone from the area by now anyway.

"How is he?" Agent Liz Warner asked.

"Barely conscious," David answered. He nodded to the weapon. "He took that trash can lid real hard to the head. That guy didn't care if he killed Colby or not using it with that force."

"Shit," Liz said sadly, only barely under her breath. She turned to Don. "We've got people working the scene. Nothing so far. Hopefully he left some receipts, other papers, fingerprints, something."

"He's been talking," David went on, as though Liz hadn't just been discussing the man who had hurt his partner. "H. . .He was." Sinclair continued with a combination of worry and disbelief. "I. . .I think he'll be okay. But," David brushed his hand over his head, "Don, he got hit real hard."

"You got him help fast. That's good. He's tough. He'll be okay." Sinclair looked back at Eppes with a look of hope, because what he witnessed and felt told him otherwise.

"I'm gonna go. . .back," Liz said as she pointed to the house. She looked worriedly at Colby, and then zeroed in on Don's eyes, a silent plea for him to keep her informed about the downed agent.

"Yeah, thanks. Keep me posted," Don said, giving her a sad smile. He had been fortunate to keep her on his team, especially after their time as a couple. That could have turned out far worse. They were friends now, and they shared a concern for their now unconscious friend. He turned from watching Liz head back to the house and watched with David as the EMTs cared for their hurt colleague. After almost ten minutes, as David gave Don a detailed rundown of what happened, and other agents led by Warner scoured the area, and the forensics team worked on the house, one of the emergency technicians walked over to the two anxious, worried men.

"We're ready to transport."

"How is he?" Eppes asked. He'd been sure that Sinclair would ask first, but the furrowed brow, and the fact that he'd barely taken his eyes off his partner since Don arrived told the team leader that he would indeed be taking the lead with this line of questioning.

"Based on Agent Sinclair's description of what happened, we're not surprised by what we've found. Agent Granger came to briefly, but has been less than satisfactory on the responses, after persistent prompting, to our neuro checks. He's responded okay to what I would call very simple questions, but he doesn't offer anything without prompting. He's become more listless as time has passed, which is not unexpected with this type of trauma. He's unconscious now."

"Will he be okay?" Don asked, again forced to ask the question that David might normally have asked. Eppes was worried about the mild indications of shock that his senior agent seemed to be exhibiting.

"I really can't answer that. Based on the severity of the laceration, the external swelling, the rapid bruising and his current level of awareness – and what Agent Sinclair described about how hard he was hit – I think the doctors will need to keep an eye on swelling in the brain, especially if its onset is rapid." The EMT looked over to the wagon. "Look, we need to go. The sooner he's treated the better his chances."

"Right," Don said as he watched the ambulance driver and the other EMT lift the stretcher with his injured agent on it into the back of the emergency vehicle.

"We'll meet you at the hospital?" the technician asked, looking with concern to David and then nodding toward him, an action that Don saw, and understood.

"Yeah, I'll get us there. We'll be right behind you."

By the time Eppes and Sinclair reached the E.R., Granger had already been rushed into an exam room. The two agents were told to take a seat in a room just down from the main waiting room and that someone would be with them as soon as possible. Don Eppes didn't like that he could actually count a significant number of times when he'd heard those words, or some derivation of them, before. He understood what those words meant better than anyone. He looked at David, who had remained silent for the quick ride over. Don smiled sympathetically, sadly, as he grasped the man's shoulder in solidarity with his worry. He pulled out his mobile phone and checked in with Liz for an update. And then he made the harder call.

"Dad?"

"Donnie. Hey, you gonna make it over for dinner? I'm making a roast. It'll be melt in your mouth," Alan Eppes added, as though hawking it on a television commercial.

"Dad," Don interrupted.

"What's wrong? Is it Charlie?"

"No, no Dad. It's, uh, it's Colby."

"Oh dear God," Alan said, assuming the worst from his eldest son's tone of voice.

"No. . .he's. . .he's not. . .we're at the emergency room at San Gabriel. He took a bad hit to the head from an assailant. They're looking at him now."

"Thank God."

"Well, I don't know, Dad. It's pretty bad. But we got him here fast. That's important."

"Is he conscious?"

"He was for a bit, but he wasn't real with it. He was unconscious when they brought him in."

"What can I do?" Alan asked.

"Can you call Charlie for me?"

"Of course. What else?"

"Pray."

"I can do that, too. How's David?"

"Not good. I'm gonna head back to sit with him. And wait."

"I'll be over shortly."

"You don't have to. . ." Alan Eppes cut off his son.

"I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Bye, son." Don closed his phone and looked across the waiting room. He'd walked away from David to make his calls. Nothing had changed; Sinclair remained sitting, his hands clasped, elbows on his knees, staring towards the exam room doors. Don walked over and sat next to his senior agent.

"My father's coming over."

David turned to Don, his expression growing even more worried, if that was possible.

"Why?" he asked, followed by, "Is there something. . .did you find out something about Colby?"

"No, no. Sorry. I just called him to let him know what happened. He thinks of you two as his surrogate sons," Don said, an affectionate smile, with its warmth and familiar wrinkles at the edges of his sparkling eyes, accompanying the easy statement. The Sinclair-Granger team had been through a lot in the years of their partnership, but one constant in all of that time was the friendship that Don had built with these two men, and the mirrored closeness between David and Colby and the other two important men in Don Eppes' life.

Eppes and Sinclair sat in silence as they waited. Fifteen minutes passed and Alan Eppes walked in, worried energy obvious in his stride. He spotted the two F.B.I. men immediately and made his way to them.

"Any word?" he asked as he first gave David a paternal rub of his shoulder and then hugged his son as Don stood up to greet him.

"No. And I'm not waiting much longer. They must have. . ."

"Agent Eppes?"

"Yeah," he said as he turned to see who called his name. The green scrubs didn't help identify much, but the authoritative manner did. David stood up and joined the doctor and the two Eppes men.

"I'm Dr. Morrison. I'm treating Agent Colby Granger."

"How is he?"

"We don't know just yet. We're taking him for an MRI. The CT scan showed some swelling, but we can see more with the MRI."

"Some swelling. How bad is that?" Don asked.

"We don't know the answer to that yet, either, I'm afraid. We need the results of the scan and then we'll know what course of treatment we'll need to take."

"How long before you'll know?" David asked. Don was happy to see his senior agent finally come out of his stupor.

"Soon."

"The reason I ask is that I've heard about people hitting their head and seeming fine," David turned to Don. "Remember, I told you that he was communicating, talking, and then," he turned back to Dr. Morrison, "and then they. . .die. He was getting worse the longer he was out there."

"We got him here in time that we don't have to worry about that, right?" Don asked the doctor.

"He's getting the best possible attention, and yes, Agent Eppes, the quick work getting him here may well have made all of the difference." The doctor was in her forties, attractive in an uncomplicated way. Her all-business demeanor right then probably hid in plain sight much of how attractive she really was. "I'll be back out as soon as I have more to tell you." She eyed them carefully and said, "It could be a while. The cafeteria is down that hall," she pointed. "At the end, go right, and then left at the next hallway. You'll see signs."

"We'll stay here," David said.

That's what she figured.

They waited another half an hour. In that time, Charlie, Amita and Larry showed up. Don stayed close to David while Alan explained to the rest what the doctor had told them. Alan Eppes had learned through the years, through his wife's illness and through his sons, especially Don's bouts of injury and sickness, to absorb what doctors and nurses told him. And his intense manner always seemed to calm when he was forced to relay this sort of information. His soothing tones from a distance also seemed to calm David, somewhat. Don looked at him closely and decided something was going on that he wasn't letting on. Don sent Amita and Larry to the cafeteria for coffee all around; he wanted his dad and Charlie to help him with whatever it was that was bugging David. Thinking that he might be losing his best friend could send anyone into a tailspin, but Don was sure there was something else going on in the big guy's head.

"Alan seems so calm," Professor Larry Fleinhardt said as he and Amita Ramanujan headed down the hall.

"He's worried. They all are," Amita responded sadly.

"Colby and David are like sons to Alan. And the four of them. . .they're brothers in arms. Charles may be armed somewhat differently. When one bleeds, they all do," Larry philosophized.

"This could be hardest on Charlie. He'll want to do something. . ."

"But math can't help Colby now," Larry finished the thought.

"No, but maybe he can work with Don to help find whoever did this."

"Maybe," Larry replied. "It wasn't Buckley, but someone wanted them to think that it was. Why?"

"I don't know, but if ever there was a time for math to come through, now would be it," Amita suggested. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "we might want to re-visit our think tank idea. This is a perfect situation that could benefit from that type of group dynamic."

"Let's see how things go," Larry countered as they got in line to order their coffees. "Maybe the F.B.I. will find something that this guy left behind. I know it seems like they were set up, but maybe," Larry pondered, his hands pressed together as in prayer, the tips of his fingers tapping his lips, "that's not what it was at all. Maybe they stumbled on this guy before he had a chance to make his move."

"Or it could be that they did draw exactly who they wanted."

Larry furrowed his brow. "You think that this person really wanted to hurt Colby?"

"Or worse. I know that this John Buckley character really got under Don's skin. Charlie told me that. David was on that last case where he got away. But Colby was on the first case, the bus case."

"But nobody got hurt in that case if I remember correctly."

"No. But they all went to prison. Buckley's the only one who escaped. Those other guys have lots of years still left to serve on their terms. This could have been just the first attack in a chain of events to get back at Don's team. Colby might simply have been the first unlucky target."

"We need to tell someone, but I don't think there is anyone here right now who is in any shape to listen," Larry noted.

"Isn't Liz Warner in charge at that scene? That's what Don said."

"Do you have her number?" Larry asked.

"No, but we can call F.B.I. headquarters, and they can patch us through," Amita replied knowingly.

"Clever _and_ beautiful. Charles is a lucky man."

* * *

Don left his father to sit with David as he took Charlie to the far side of the waiting room.

"Something's up with David."

"What do you mean?" Don's younger brother asked as he looked with concern to their friend.

"He's not with it. He's. . ."

"Don, his best friend just got seriously injured. Are you sure it's not just shock?"

"That's what I thought at first. The signs were there. But I think there might be something else going on."

"Like what?"

"Like guilt."

"Guilt? What for?"

"I wasn't sure at first. I was thinking because Buckley got away last time, that David sees it as his fault that Buckley got another shot at us."

"But Don, it wasn't Buckley."

"I know. So now I think it might be as simple as guilt over bringing Colby along."

"Colby's his partner. It's his job."

"Yeah, but David was pretty insistent on checking out this lead."

"And you weren't."

"No, I wasn't," Don replied. "Turns out David's instincts were right on about coming here. Something was up. And now I'm starting to understand why he might be feeling a little guilty. I told him to take Colby with him. I should have taken this more seriously."

"Don, the guy's weapon was a trash can lid. All of the back-up in the world isn't going to be able to counter something so random."

Don Eppes knew his younger brother was right on this, but having that knowledge didn't help make him feel any better about what had happened.

"Come with me while I talk to him? Maybe you can do some magic explaining randomness and probabilities and all that stuff." Charlie smiled, knowing that Don was upset, yet still working in the gentle kidding about math. He knew it was a joke, though, calling it 'stuff'. He had been on the receiving end of more than enough genuine gratitude from his brother to know that Don's teasing was nothing more than a way to ease his worry for his two agents, one so seriously injured physically, the other equally crippled emotionally just now.

"Sure."

They returned to sit with David. Don started right in.

"This isn't your fault," he stated emphatically.

"It was," Sinclair insisted.

"No, it wasn't."

"Don, I was the one who demanded we go. I practically dragged him away from his desk. I jumped the gun."

"No you didn't, David."

"We should have checked things out more," Sinclair insisted.

Don Eppes had a reply. "And what if you had and it had been Buckley? You might have missed your window."

"But. . ."

"No," Don said. "It's. . .what happened to Colby was, well, it could have happened to anyone. Explain it to him, Charlie."

Charlie smiled affectionately at his brother, recognizing that the worry for his friends was seriously impacting on Don's ability to come off as eloquently as he'd like.

"What Don is trying to say, David, is that you can't account for random acts. How many times have you and Colby gone out together and not got hurt? I'm not talking about a scrape here and there. You have to take into consideration what would be the norm each time you go out. If you tried to account for each random event. . ." Charlie looked at David, to see if he really needed to go on.

"But I think we had the information we needed to know something like this might happen," David countered.

"No you didn't. You did exactly the expected thing, because you know that Buckley himself doesn't hurt or kill. He's a lot of things, but he's not violent in that sense. That's why you went there, just the two of you, and that's why Don let you go. How many times have you been forced to chase someone? It almost always turns out okay, right?"

"That's mostly because Colby's so damned fast," David explained, a little enviously, a lot proudly.

"True. But that's the norm. S.O.P. The trash can lid was so far outside the bounds of what would be expected, so random, not just because of the weapon used but because it turned out not to be who you thought. There's no logic in blaming yourself. The only blame is with the guy who did this."

Don and Charlie watched as David accepted this truth. He'd been beating himself up over this, subconsciously and consciously. It was readily apparent to the Eppes brothers that David Sinclair had been wallowing silently in that guilt this whole time. Sinclair let out an angry sigh, his way of venting his frustration and pain over what had happened, and over what little he could do to fix or change the situation. He ran his hand over his face, and then turned to Don.

"Any word from Liz?"

"No. I'll give her another call soon." Don looked over his friend, assessing his frame of mind. "You okay?" he asked.

"No, not really. I mean," he turned to Charlie, "I understand what you've said, and I guess I even agree with it, but I think I need two things to happen to make me feel okay."

"You want Colby to be all right," Charlie said. David nodded.

"You want to catch the guy who hurt him." David didn't need to nod for Don to know that he was as right about the second thing as Charlie had been about the first.

* * *

A full hour and a half had passed. Everyone was now waiting in the emergency room waiting area for word on Colby. Amita and Larry had gone over their supposition about Granger's attacker, and Don had passed the information on to Liz, who was still at the scene. Unfinished cups of coffee dotted side tables. A pall had fallen over the group; they were talked out and in their own worlds as they dealt with what had happened to their friend.

"Hey, I came as soon as I heard. Why didn't you call?" Robin Brooks asked Don.

"Hi," he said as he stood and kissed his girlfriend, the Assistant United States Attorney. "I knew you were in court," he explained.

"How is he?" she queried.

"We're still waiting to hear more. He got hit hard on the head. There's swelling on his brain. They did a CT scan and were doing an MRI, but it's been almost two hours since the doctor went back into the exam room."

"I'm so sorry. What happened?" Don took Robin aside and updated her on the events of the late morning, now early afternoon.

"How come you're here?" he asked.

"The judge called a recess until Monday. A juror's family member died, and they've already seated one alternate." Don just nodded and held her hand tighter. "You're very worried, aren't you?" she asked with a frown.

"Brain injuries can mean the end of a career for an F.B.I. man."

Robin breathed in, shaken by the statement. "Is it really that bad?" The assistant U.S. attorney had grown fond of the young agent. She liked his style; it reminded her a lot of her own. She knew that they had both gotten into trouble in the past for their maverick ways.

"No. Maybe. We don't know yet," Don answered.

"Then let's concentrate on positive thoughts."

"And prayers?" he asked, wondering if they would ever see eye to eye on the religion question.

"If it works for you, absolutely," she returned with a sad smile.

The E.R. doors opened and everyone turned to see who was coming out. It was Doctor Morrison. Colby's L.A. 'family' all stood and moved towards her, anxious for news.

"I'm sorry I've been gone so long. Please, everyone, have a seat." She took a seat herself in order to encourage the others to do the same.

"How is he?" David asked.

"He's stable. The MRI showed some pretty serious swelling. We've got him on some drugs that will hopefully reduce that."

"Hopefully?" Alan asked.

"We'll be keeping a close eye on him. We've got him sedated, on oxygen and diuretics. And he's isolated in the E.R. now, and we'll be moving him to the quietest area of the I.C.U. soon. If this regimen doesn't result in a fairly quick adjustment in his condition, then we'll need to go in and try something else."

"You mean something surgical?" Alan asked.

"You've been down this road before?" Dr. Morrison asked.

"Something like it."

"Yes, that would be our next option. But we feel pretty confident that this will work."

"Has he been conscious?" Don asked.

"No, but that's not unusual, and now he will be out for a while, which is best for healing."

"Can we see him?"

"We're going to move him to I.C.U. in a while. It'll take about an hour to make the transition. Why don't you all go get some lunch? I'm sure none of you have eaten anything in a while," she smiled sympathetically as she eyed all of the coffee cups scattered about.

"That's a good idea," Charlie said. "Thank you, Doctor."

"You're welcome. I.C.U. is on the second floor, east."

"We know," Alan said.

Doctor Morrison watched as the group moved as one out of the waiting room. She noticed a police officer walk up to them and shake Agent Eppes' hand. More people worried about this young man. A nurse walked up to her and asked, "Were they all waiting about Agent Granger?"

"He's a lucky man to have so many people worried for him."

"He's been in before," the nurse said.

"I know. I reviewed his file. He's been through some rough stuff."

"I hope he'll be okay," the young emergency room professional said.

"We'll do everything we can to make it so," Dr. Morrison said as she turned to head back to her patient. "Are we ready to move him?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Then let's do it. Let these people see their friend."

* * *

Three days later, as David Sinclair sat beside his friend's bed in I.C.U., Colby Granger started to come to. He had been awake, briefly, late yesterday and again earlier this day, with the doctor present, and though Colby was in serious pain from the injury, and still considered in serious condition, the doctor had relayed the good news to the immovable force that David had become: Colby would recover. The only reason that he was still listed as serious was that he needed to remain awake longer for some neuro checks, but Dr. Morrison seemed pleased and positive about the young man's prognosis. David stepped out of the room to quickly call Don, who agreed to pass along the good news. David stepped back in and witnessed Colby move, ever so slightly, and then he moaned.

"Take it easy, buddy," David said, hopeful that his partner was aware enough to hear it. He put his hand firmly on Granger's shoulder.

"Dav'd?" the healing agent asked.

"Yeah, it's me." Sinclair watched as his friend blinked slowly, lazily, and then, finally, opened his eyes more emphatically. His eyes remained half open, just barely, and closed in equal amounts. But the doctor had said it was okay to try to wake him, so David said, "Hey, man, it's good to see you awake."

"'s that what this is?" Colby slurred. "Can't say it feels too good to be awake. My head. . ." he started and then put his hand up to feel where the pain seemed to be radiating.

"You've got a nasty gash. It's healing. You should leave it alone," David suggested, taking the hand and placing it back down on the bed with a firm, warm grasp.

"My head. . ." Colby began again, but exhaustion stopped him short. He seemed to be heading back to sleep. David continued.

"You got hit hard. Suffered some swelling, but you're lots better."

Sinclair's voice woke Granger. "This's lots better?" Colby asked with a grimace.

"Dr. Morrison says that you'll be feeling it pretty bad for a while longer."

"Dr. Morrison?"

"Yeah, a resident here. They called her down when you came in to the emergency room."

Granger's eyebrows raised at Sinclair's comment. "Her?" he asked.

"Simmer down, Granger. You're days away from that. Besides, she's married."

"Jus' my luck," Colby said as he closed his eyes, pain evident on the handsome face. David leaned in and pressed the call button. "When c'n I get outta here?"

"The doc says she'd like you to stay put for a while."

"How long?" Colby persisted.

"That depends on how your recovery comes along," David explained.

"How long've I been here?"

"Just over three days."

"An' I've been out mosta that time? Why'm I so tired?"

"Because it's exhausting work healing from an injury like you sustained," Dr. Carol Morrison said as she entered the room. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

"Colby, this is Dr. Morrison."

"We met, though I suspect you don't remember that," the doctor said as she picked up Colby's wrist and checked his pulse.

"No, 'm sorry. . ." Granger started.

"No need to be. You were awake enough for me. This, I must admit, is much better. How do you feel?" she asked as she placed her stethoscope just beneath the gown Granger wore.

"Really tired," he answered.

"His head hurts," David offered.

"David," Colby said in warning to his partner.

"It does," David defended the slip. He looked at Dr. Morrison. "He gets really bad headaches from most pain medication." Colby sighed. "It's part of my job, man," he apologized as he spoke directly to the doctor about the patient. "Is there something you can give him that won't? I mean, his head is already feeling like it's going to explode." He looked back to Colby. "Am I right?"

"People are gonna start thinkin' we're dating," Granger said wryly, weakly.

"What, a partner's not supposed to be concerned for his partner," Sinclair returned humorlessly.

"I'm not sayin' that, David. I can speak for myself." This time Colby did reach up for his head and rub it, until that movement seemed to cause more harm than good.

"I didn't see you letting the doctor know. . ."

"Maybe I didn't think it was that important." Colby's voice was now raised, in anger at his friend speaking out of turn or frustration at the situation it was hard to tell.

"You're my best friend and I'm not going to let anything hurt you more, not if I can help it," David countered, definitely angry.

"I don't need protection, David!"

"You're wrong about that," Sinclair said. What that meant neither of them would be able to pursue, at least not just then, as David turned abruptly and left the I.C.U. room. A nurse walked in as the opened door began to swing closed.

"What. . ." she started to ask, and then saw Dr. Morrison.

"We're okay, Lisa."

"Okay. I'll be at the desk."

"Thank you." Dr. Morrison turned back to Colby and asked, "What was all of that about?" She stepped up close to him and said, "I'm going to check your eye reaction. Follow the light."

"Do I have to?" he asked. "My head is killing me."

"So Agent Sinclair was right?" A grunt was his only reply. Dr. Morrison continued checking over Granger, keeping her findings to herself, a definite frustration to the healing law enforcement officer. "You're doing much better," she finally said as she sat down on the edge of the bed and looked Colby in the eye. "You were goading him."

"I wasn't."

"You were. Why?"

"B'cause he drives me crazy when he gets like this."

"And how is he exactly?" the physician asked. "Concerned, worried, dedicated, a good friend?"

"He's treating me like I can't take care of myself." She smiled and looked at him, _her_ eyebrows raised high this time.

"You know, he's hardly left your side. He asked for special permission to stay outside of regular visiting hours. He's been kind and considerate of the staff. And he's quite dedicated to you." Colby closed his eyes. He seemed to appear more ill as the moments passed. 'Too much activity', the doctor thought to herself. "You know, there was no guarantee that you would recover. And you still have a way to go. Lots of rest. No activity of any kind for several weeks. You are going to need help."

"Weeks?" he asked. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Colby sighed. "I don't want. . ." he paused, not sure that he really wanted to go in to this with the doctor. And he was beginning to feel really poorly. "Never mind."

"Look, I think maybe you were a little hard on him, that's all. Irritation with, well, everything is typical with head injuries as severe as yours," the doctor noted. She also noticed that Granger was turning far paler than he should. "Agent Granger?" she asked.

"Please call me Colby." He paused and looked around the room anxiously. "Um, I think. . ." the doctor didn't let him finish as she jumped up and reached for the emesis basin. She helped Granger lean over to the left as Colby was sick in the container. Far too quickly, though, he started to lose his grip on the basin as he put his hand to his head. David re-entered the room just in time to hold the plastic bowl for his friend as he continued to expel what was now only bile. He hadn't eaten in a very long time; he doubted he'd be eating any time soon now.

"Ugh," he uttered as he finished.

"You done?" David asked worriedly.

Colby nodded. Dr. Morrison shot her eyes over to the door; Sinclair didn't miss the directive. "He's had a little too much activity, I think. I'm going to get a sedative and a very mild pain reliever for him. The sedation will put him out quickly enough. The pain medicine will take the edge off." She looked squarely at the attractive black agent. "Keep it civil. I'll be right back."

David stepped back next to his friend's hospital bed. "I'm sorry."

Colby kept his eyes shut. "Me, too." He breathed in and out in an attempt to keep the lingering nausea in check. "I guess I will be needing some help in the next couple of weeks, as it turns out."

"Don't worry about it. I'll be there. We're always there for each other, right?"

"Partners," Colby agreed.

"You're my best friend, Granger. Don't laugh, but when you bleed, I bleed."

"I _would_ laugh if I didn't know it would hurt too much." His eyes remained closed for the entire conversation. "But I know what you mean. I love you, man." A single tear fell from Colby's left eye. That side of his face was seriously bruised: the multi-color of days-old burst blood vessels and battered flesh, the gash that the trash can lid left now closed by about a dozen or so stitches. The tear could have been from anything, but Sinclair was pretty sure part of it was the remaining drugs Granger was on for the brain swelling. . .and that most of it was too much emotion for someone who was in no shape to have to deal with it right then.

"I didn't mean to be. . .difficult, before," David said.

"You weren't." Colby opened his eyes and looked at his friend. "Dr. Morrison said that I was the one who was being rough. I'm. . .I don't. . ."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Relax. The doc is bringing back something for you. You need to rest and relax and get better. You should sleep," David said.

"But, David, I wanna. . ."

"We'll talk in the morning. It's getting late."

"Stay for a while?" Colby requested.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep."

"Good. Thanks." Colby's eyes remained closed, and he was nearly asleep when Dr. Morrison returned to the room. David put his index finger up to his lips, warning her that his friend was close to sleep all on his own. She injected the medicines into her patient's I.V. and they watched as Colby made his way to an easy, and hopefully dream-free slumber. The senior agent and the doctor left the room.

"He'll sleep through the night." David was clearly preparing to ask the question, but the doctor answered it before it was asked. "He won't feel any worse than he already does with the head injury. I promise. He'll likely feel a lot better, in fact, with the enforced sleep."

"Thank you. I didn't mean to sound like I doubt you. . ." Dr. Morrison interrupted Sinclair.

"You're just watching out for your friend. I wish more of my patients were so fortunate. I understand." She eyed the man before her critically and said, "You need to go home and get some sleep, too. He won't wake up before morning. You both need the rest."

"I am tired. I'll be back at seven."

"Actually, he will probably sleep until nine or so."

"I'll be back at seven. Good night," David said as he headed in to his partner's room one more time.

"Of course you will," Dr. Carol Morrison said as she watched the one agent head to the other one's bedside one last time for the evening. She shook her head and then walked down the hallway to see one last patient before calling it a night herself.

* * *

"You got him," Don Eppes said to Liz Warner.

"Yeah. Uncanny, really, how much he resembles John Buckley," she answered, relieved to have captured the man responsible for hurting her friend and sometimes partner, and proud to have had a hand in doing so. She had teamed with L.A. police Lieutenant Gary Walker. The senior law enforcement officer had worked tirelessly these last few days to help his F.B.I. friends apprehend the person who had hurt Granger. The man was the brother of one of Buckley's accomplices who went to prison. He had used his likeness to the other criminal to lure the team. He had confessed, saying that his 'little' brother shouldn't have to pay when the F.B.I. had 'let Buckley go'.

"He worked on it, though," Don offered. "He shaved his head some so that he could get that receding hairline thing going." Liz raised her eyebrow. "What?" he asked. She smiled, but said nothing. "I'm not going to have that problem. Look at my dad. And Charlie."

"Well, I hope you're right. I'm going to head over. We'll see you there?"

"I've got a few things to finish up. I'll be there on time," Don answered.

A half an hour later, Don was still at his desk when David hurried into the bullpen.

"You're gonna be late," he said as he grabbed all of his gear and headed in a rush to the elevator.

"What about you?" Don asked as he stood and reached for his jacket and keys, put on his sunglasses and placed his gun in its holder.

"I'm coming. But I'm the one who's picking him up."

"So it's okay if you're late?"

"It'll do him good. The way he's been the last few times I was there. . ."

"You can't blame him for being anxious to get out. They kept him there for almost two weeks. That's gotta feel like eternity to a guy like Colby."

"It was for his own good. It's going to be hard enough keeping him calm and quiet for another _week_, let alone two," David returned.

"That's why he's staying with my dad. He's between semesters and can take the time to keep an eye on him. And since Dad's between semesters, so are Charlie and Amita, so there'll be lots of eyes on him."

"It won't be enough," David said as Don joined him in the elevator. Don smiled, knowing there was more than an iota of truth in the comment.

"He'll tire easily for a while. I doubt he'll even make it through dessert tonight."

"You're probably right about that," David agreed. "Dr. Morrison said that he'll be tired, especially since he's not on the serious pain medication. His body will tell him when he's had enough, so long as he's not stubborn and ignores it," David said, reiterating what he'd been told by the doctor on the phone earlier that morning.

"That's all stuff that Dad, Charlie and Amita will be looking out for. Plus, he'll get the idea when we all are there tonight that he's on notice to take it easy and get better. He'll be sick of us by the end of the night," Don said with an evil smile.

"I don't doubt that." They headed to their cars. "We'll see you in a bit. Everybody coming?" David asked.

"All the usual suspects, Ian and Gary, and maybe a little surprise."

"Really? That would be just what the doctor ordered. Granger never was able to say no to her."

* * *

"I can go to my place," Colby insisted to his partner.

"Well, there's an awful lot of people who say that you can't, most importantly your doctor, your boss, and me. Besides, Alan's got Don's room all set for you. It'll be nice."

"I don't want. . ." David had started out of the hospital parking lot but pulled over just before exiting. He turned to Colby and interrupted his thought.

"Look, I don't want to upset you, you know that. And I know you're supposed to take it easy, and I want that so you can get better and we can start doing again what we do best. I need to say something to you."

Colby shrugged his shoulder. He knew that he'd gotten, if anything, more irritable and hard to be with over the course of his hospital stay. His head still ached. . .all of the time. He knew he needed the extra time that the doctor had recommended, required, actually, as a pre-requisite to his release. He knew there was no way he could properly back up David or anyone else that he worked with and cared for on the team. Colby knew that he needed to relax and accept his medicine, such that it was, but it was hard. So hard.

"Your value on this team is immeasurable. You probably don't realize that because you just see it as part of your job." People like Colby Granger never saw dedication, commitment, as ever going above and beyond the call of duty. "But you know," Sinclair went on as he now faced his partner and placed his hand on Granger's shoulder, "all of those things that make you special as an agent – your shooting skills, your speed and strength, your intelligence, your sharpness in the interrogation room, your language skills, your dedication to the work – none of those things, to me, holds a candle to what your friendship means to me. Do you understand?" David asked as he earnestly looked into his best friend's eyes. "If we could never partner again I would be okay with that, because you're alive and I know that I've still got you in my life. You're my best friend. But the fact is that so long as you behave yourself and let your friends – your family – take care of you for a little while, we get to keep doing this thing that we do. We are so lucky."

Colby let it sink in, what David was saying to him. Just moments ago he had been thinking how hard it would be to let these people, who were as close to him as any blood relative, help him. How incredibly selfish that thinking seemed now. And how lucky he was. No, this was not hard. This was an easy call; he'd just needed his best friend to set him straight.

"I know we are," Colby replied. "I've been. . .just. . .really. . ." He didn't know how to describe what he'd been feeling, how he'd been acting. David seemed to have an answer readily available.

"Stubborn?"

"Maybe a little," Colby conceded with a shy grin. That wasn't really it, but it was an easy out for now to let David think that it was.

David snorted. "Maybe a little," he mimicked, shaking his head. "That's an interesting perspective you've got there, Granger." David gave his friend one last, affectionate rub of his back before he pulled the car out of the lot and started them down the few blocks to get to the Eppes home in Pasadena.

"That was quite a speech, partner," Colby said. "That's almost more than you say on an average day."

"I usually only have to resort to so much talking when I need to keep you in line, brother."

Colby laughed easily at the quick retort. They talked briefly about Liz's apprehension of the perp who'd hurt Colby so badly, and about how the real Buckley would likely be appalled at the attempt to usurp his image in such a vile crime. As they approached Charlie's house, Colby noticed all of the familiar cars.

"Uh, David. . ." he started with apprehension.

"Don't worry, it's just dinner with your friends."

"It doesn't feel like that." Sinclair knew that Granger hated any fuss, but he also knew that tonight's event wasn't about that at all.

"They just want to make sure you're okay. Plus, they all have strict instructions not to overstay their welcome."

"How come that doesn't make me feel any better?" He recognized Ian Edgerton's truck and a police cruiser that likely belonged to Gary Walker, as well as some familiar F.B.I.-issue vehicles.

"You'll feel better once you get inside."

They got out of the car, and David led the way to the front door, giving his partner a few extra moments to get used to the idea of what was inside the house. Colby kept his head down, in deep thought as he watched the sidewalk leading to the door; for some reason he felt the need to psych himself up for this unexpected welcome.

"I can't leave you alone for a few months without you getting into trouble?" he heard from up ahead, the familiar, East Coast sound and the teasing tones an immediate balm to his aching head and his equally pained disposition.

"Megan?" he asked, perplexed. He raised his head from the fixation on his footsteps to look ahead of him. The tall former agent stepped through the threshold and enveloped Colby in a warm, tight embrace. He started to pull away, but Megan Reeves held on tight. The hug seemed to go on forever; Granger didn't realize how much he needed to be held, how much he missed his friend; how much he still ached for what might have happened to her when she was kidnapped two years earlier by Crystal Hoyle. How events from the past can still haunt the present. He let out a brief, unexpected sob, and Megan pulled him in tighter. Colby's face was buried in her shoulder, her golden-bronze locks covering his face from his other friends. David put his hand gently on Colby's head, giving him a warm pat that morphed to an affectionate rub down the back of his neck, and then joined everybody else at the doorway of the beautiful Craftsman house, its warm, friendly glow casting its spell on the reunion. They went inside to wait for their healing friend and their returned friend, grateful that both of them were still in their lives.

The End.


End file.
